Partners in crime, p.1
Partners in Crime, page 1
Partners in Crime
Daniel Pike Legal Thriller Series, Volume 7
WILLIAM BERNHARDT
Published by Babylon Books, 2023.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for William Bernhardt and the Daniel Pike Legal Thrillers
Part 1: When Death Itself Comes Calling
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part 2: The Ferrari Has Left the Building
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part 3: Partners in Law
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Afterword
About the Author
Also by William Bernhardt
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Praise for William Bernhardt and the Daniel Pike Legal Thrillers
“William Bernhardt is a born stylist, and his writing through the years has aged like a fine wine....”
Steve Berry, New York Times-bestselling author of The Kaiser’s Web
“William Bernhardt knows when to soar and when to dive, when to make you sweat and when to let you breathe, when to throw this flying machine into a barrel roll that will absolutely shock you and when to bring you home safe and satisfied.”
William Martin, New York Times-bestselling author of The Lincoln Letter
“Thrillingly interwoven plots are Bernhardt’s forte, a talent he once again demonstrates full-blown in his latest superb thriller...”
Booklist (for Dark Justice)
“Bernhardt keeps his readers coming back for more.”
Library Journal
“Once started, it is hard to let [The Last Chance Lawyer] go, since the characters are inviting, engaging, and complicated....You will enjoy it.”
Chicago Daily Law Bulletin
“[Court of Killers] is a wonderful second book in the Daniel Pike series...[A] top-notch, suspenseful crime thriller with excellent character development...”
Timothy Hoover, fiction and nonfiction author
“I could not put Trial by Blood down. The plot is riveting—with a surprise after the ending, when I thought it was all over....This book is special.”
Nikki Hanna, author of Capture Life
“Judge and Jury is a fast-paced, well-crafted story that challenges each major character to adapt to escalating attacks that threaten the very existence of their unique law firm.”
RJ Johnson, author of Dreamslinger
“Final Verdict is a must read with a brilliant main character and surprises and twists that keep you turning pages. One of the best novels I’ve read in a while.”
Alicia Dean, award-winning author of The Northland Crime Chronicles
"Exposed has everything I love in a thriller: intricate plot twists, an ensemble of brilliant heroines, and jaw-dropping drama both in and out of the courtroom. William Bernhardt knows how to make the law come alive."
Tess Gerritsen, New York Times-bestselling author of the Rizzoli & Isles thrillers
“William Bernhardt returns with a stunning piece of fiction....In a story that mixes fiction with the deadliest realities, Bernhardt provides readers with a novel unlike any I have read in a long while. With graphic depictions told in a highly realistic fashion, William Bernhardt proves why he is at the top of his game and eager to share his skills with readers!”
Book Reviews to Ponder (for Plot/Counterplot)
“Splitsville is a winner—well-written, with fully developed characters and a narrative thrust that keeps you turning the pages.”
Gary Braver, bestselling author of Tunnel Vision
Copyright
Copyright © 2023 by William Bernhardt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedication
For my family
Nothing matters more
Epigraph
Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.
Helen Keller
Part 1: When Death Itself Comes Calling
Chapter 1
I’ve always wondered what happens when you die.
But that doesn’t mean I was in a big hurry to find out. And when the answers finally arrived, I wasn’t ready for them.
I don’t know how I got into this mess. I don’t know why I’m being hunted. All I know is that I shouldn’t have stayed late at work tonight. But when you’re a social worker, there’s never enough time. I spend most of my day in an Indianapolis social services office convincing people who get SNAP—what we used to call food stamps, sort of—to buy nutritious foods rather than grabbing garbage at the nearest 7-11. I’m always behind on the paperwork, my illness caused me to be absent several days, and since I had no other plans, I thought this would be a good night to catch up.
One of my clients, Chantelle, is a single mother with two small children. I’ve been trying for months to instill concepts apparently not introduced in her own childhood—like balanced meals and discipline.
“Honey.” She always calls me “honey” for some reason. “You can get those big boxes of beef jerky at Dollar General for nearly nothin’.”
“Chantelle, processed meats are not the best meal for your girls. They need more variety. Three colors on the dinner plate.”
“They like that beef jerky. And I can make lunch cheap by getting chips and pouring that Cheez Whiz on it. Instant nachos!”
“Instant junk food. You need to use your EBY card wisely. Don’t fill your pantry with pseudo-food. Get fresh produce. Go to the farmers market.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Zimmerman, but my girls won’t eat fruit.”
“They will if there are no other choices.”
“Mia throws tantrums if she doesn’t get what she wants.”
I clenched my teeth. Not my job to teach someone how to parent. “She’ll get hungry, assuming there are no readily available snacks. She needs fruit and vegetables and fiber and—”
“Is there fiber in Cap’n Crunch?”
“Maybe try shredded wheat. Or oatmeal.”
And the next thing I knew I was writing a detailed shopping list and meal plan. And about an hour behind schedule.
Just as I was thinking about getting out of there, the phone call came. On the land line. I picked it up.
No one answered. But the line wasn’t dead. Someone was there, just not talking. So what was the point?
Knowing where I was, obviously.
I hung up and ran for the elevators.
I didn’t see him. Her. It. Anyone. But as soon as I punched the down button in the office lobby, something hard clubbed me over the head. I tumbled to the floor. Managed to protect my teeth, but my forehead hit the ground hard enough to make me dizzy.
I tried to crawl back to my feet, but something grabbed me. I twisted away. My clothes tore. The buttons on my blouse popped, gaping open, with one sleeve dangling around my wrist. I tried to get up again, but my head was still clouded. Someone pushed me down. I tried again.
Someone slapped me across the face.
“Stop!” I screamed. “Why are you doing this? If you need money—”
I heard a laugh that creeped the hell out of me. Wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman or a supernatural beast. Which made it all the more unsettling.
“Why are you doing this?”
I felt as if the entire lobby went into suspended animation. No one spoke. Nothing moved. Until at last, the laughter gave way to a few words.
“You’re number four.” The voice sounded distorted, unnatural.
A vicious blow hit the right side of my face, swinging my neck around so hard I feared it might snap. I didn’t understand any of this. I didn’t know what to do. I felt paralyzed.
My attacker straightened, rearing back for the fatal blow. Something glistened in the refracted overhead light.
That dark figure held a knife. A very big knife at the end of a long handle.
The elevator made its familiar dinging sound. The doors opened.
For the first time, I got a good look at my attacker. Dressed in black. Wearing a long robe. And a mask that looked like it was Halloween. A white skeletal face.
Was he dressed like Death itself? The Grim Reaper?
Something hit me over the head. The knife? A scythe? Didn’t matter. I staggered across the tile floor, realizing that if I didn’t do something fast, the Reaper would be dispatching another soul to the afterlife. In horror movies, this would be when a fire axe or knitting needle or letter opener would suddenly appear conveniently within my grasp. Where were they now?
I’d been in this lobby a thousand times and I’d seen a fire extinguisher. Didn’t really focus on it, but I knew it was there. I staggered in the general direction. Found the handle to the glass case. Opened it...
I could feel the Reaper moving, rustling....
I summoned all the strength I could muster, raised the extinguisher over my head, then slammed it down on top of my attacker.
There was no noise. No cry of pain. But the Reaper crumbled.
I ran for the elevator and slipped between the doors just in time. They closed behind me. Thank God! I descended to the ground floor. Nothing was going to stop me.
But that didn’t mean I’d escaped.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, I raced out, torn clothes dangling from my upper body. My skirt was torn, too. I was a mess. Didn’t let that stop me. I pushed through the outer doors onto the street and plunged into a downpour. I screamed for help. I knew I must look like a crazy person, but I didn’t care what people thought. I just wanted to be safe.
No one came. No one helped.
Behind me, I saw a black robe emerge from the building.
Tearing down the streets. Splashing through the rain. Giving myself a running bath. I made noise and waved my arms. I thought if I acted whacked enough, a cop might pull over to check me out. No such luck.
In ten minutes, I could be back in my apartment. But I didn’t have that long. The Reaper was behind me somewhere. I could feel it. It was the chill in the marrow of my bones. The shiver in every step.
I ran to Maryland, one of the main downtown arteries. Raced past Buca di Beppo and the Sugar Factory. Convention Center. Lucas Oil Stadium. Where were all the people? How late had I been working?
Glanced at my watch. Broken. Searched for my phone. I put that in my clutch...which I must’ve lost during the struggle.
I was on my own.
I looked behind me. Was it my imagination, or had the black shape returned? Hard to see anything clearly in this deluge, plus my head still throbbed. Was the Reaper behind me, closing in? What did he want?
I raced across the street—too fast, as it turned out. The sidewalk was slick and I fell. I hit something hard. It hurt. Not so much in my legs as my lower back. I managed to push myself to my feet, but it felt like a surgeon had cut me open with a scalpel. Searing pain. Almost unbearable.
I ignored the stabbing torment and started moving again. It was more like a hobble than a run. But I inched forward.
I could see where the alley emptied out onto the street. The downtown canals were easy to navigate if you understood how they worked...and difficult to navigate if you didn’t. One wrong turn and suddenly there was a wide waterway between you and your prey.
I could only hope.
Fifty more feet and my apartment would be within sight. If I got there, what could happen to me? I’d be able to rest and relax and figure out how my already difficult life suddenly become so much worse. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel—
Something grabbed me by the throat and yanked me to the concrete. My head hit hard and the world started spinning. After that, I wasn’t thinking too clearly.
I felt a hand clutch my throat. A slender bony hand. Exactly what you would expect from the Grim Reaper.
And just as the barely visible light began to dim, I returned to my initial question. The one I’d had to confront, not just now, but every day for the last three years.
What happens when you die?
I stopped struggling. I wasn’t accomplishing anything. It was as if my entire body had accepted the inevitable. Which, I suppose, I had.
In my dying moments, the Reaper, still choking the life out of me, spoke.
“You should have withdrawn,” the voice rasped. “You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last.”
And in that moment, the light dimmed. My life did not flash before my eyes. I did not see angels. It was more like when you wake just a few minutes before your alarm sounds. You could get up. But you don’t. You nestle in for a few more moments of, maybe not asleep, but peace.
I’ve spent most of my adult life helping others. But when I needed it most, I couldn’t help myself. And no one swooped in to save the day.
The light did come. So bright I had to close my eyes.
Was it really there, or did I just want it to be there? And what did it mean?
My eyelids fluttered shut for a final time.
I’ve always wondered what happens when you die.
Looks like I’m about to find out.
Chapter 2
Dan watched Maria gather her notes for cross-examination. In the past, she preferred to work behind the lines, out of the courtroom limelight. But since he agreed to help run the Last Chance Lawyers network, she’d been forced to take lead chair on many occasions. He was glad to see her gaining confidence. She sounded just as smart as she looked—today sporting a Sergio Hudson tailored tuxedo-style midnight-blue blazer.
But watching her tackle a hostile witness made him a bit wistful. Did he miss practicing law? Of course not. What a hassle. One irritation after another. Dealing with judges, juries, opposing counsel, and worst of all...clients. How did he ever stand it? He was able to accomplish so much more on a larger scale since Ben Kincaid handed over the reins. He was content.
And yet, here he was, Monday morning, on a beautiful Floridian St. Petersburg day, inside the courthouse, sitting beside Maria’s client. Spectating.
“Agent Clarkson.” Maria cleared her throat. “May I call you that?”
“You’re the lawyer, so I suppose you can do anything you like,” he groused. “But I retired from the FBI over ten years ago.”
“But you were in the FBI.”
“As I told your client. First time we communicated.”
“Did you tell her why you were dismissed?”
“Objection.” Clarkson’s lawyer, a young kid named Barclay, rose to his feet. “Relevance.”
Dan instinctively pressed down on the toes of his Air Jordans—then froze. Stay in your seat, he told himself. You are just watching. Not your problem.
“It is relevant,” Maria insisted. “Goes to the fraudulent portrait he painted of himself.”
“She asked about something he didn’t say,” Barclay replied, “not something he did.”
“Omissions can be just as misleading as false statements.”
Judge Littlefeather tossed her head from side-to-side, mentally deliberating. “I’ll allow it.”
The witness, Emil Clarkson, looked as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world. But that wasn’t unusual. Being on the witness stand was uncomfortable for everyone, even those with nothing to hide. Clarkson was a large man with a scarred face. Dan would not want to meet him in a dark passageway.
“When did you first meet my client, Darleen Fielding?” Maria asked. Darleen sat at the plaintiff’s table with Dan, barely concealing a sneer. She was just over forty, brunette, plump, and still kicking herself for giving this man money.
“About three years ago. Assuming you were asking when I met her online.”
“Right. You swiped right on Tinder.”
“Correct.”
“And then you engaged in an extended dialogue.”
“We talked for weeks. Eventually switched to email. Then telephone. And finally I met her in public.”
“Because you wanted money.”
“I felt we had something.”
“But you did take her money.”
“I knew about an investment opportunity and mentioned it to her. I didn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do.”
“And then you spent all the money?”
“I didn’t spend it. I invested it.”
“And now you say the investment is kaput.”
“Investments don’t always pay off. There’s always risk.”
